A New Family

Home is where the pain is

Sachiko's POV

I sat alone in my dim room, coloring a picture I had just drawn for my daddy. Maybe if he liked it, he wouldn't beat me for a little bit! The thought made me smile brightly. There wasn't a day I could remember in my 7 years of life that my parents hadn't beaten me, but a little hope goes a long way when you're desperate.

As soon as I was finished coloring, I picked up the picture and inspected it carefully. After a minute or so of further inspection, I nodded decisively. Time to give it to Daddy!

I merrily skipped down the stairs and into the living room, where Daddy sat on the couch watching TV with a bottle in his hand, as usual.

"Here Daddy! I made this for you!" I chirped while handing him the picture I'd worked so long on.

Daddy took the piece of paper from my hand and stared at it for a moment before turning his gaze on me. "You made this?" he slurred. I nodded, slightly less enthusiastic than a moment ago. He hummed in response and stared at the picture again. "Why'd you make me this, little girl?"

I was silent until I'd gathered up the nerve to give him my truthful answer. "Well, I- uh... I thought that it would m-make you happy and that maybe y-you wouldn't.....hit me today," I stuttered quietly.

Daddy stared at me some more, for even longer this time, before snatching my arm and pulling me down in front of him. "Girl, I will beat you whenever I want to, you hear me?" he seethed while squeezing my arm harshly.

"Yes, Daddy," I squeaked.

"Sir," he corrected.

"Yes, sir," I squeaked again.

"Good," he muttered. He released my arm and told me to go bother someone else. I was quick to obey.

Back in my room again, I examined my arm carefully. There were finger-shaped bruises forming on my delicate skin. I sighed lightly before searching for something to occupy my free time. It wasn't as if that was the first time Daddy bruised me. This bruise was nothing compared to the other things he and Mommy did to me.

I was sitting silently on my bed and reading a book when Mommy and Daddy slammed my door open and stumbled into my room. I knew they were drunk again; it was obvious by the way they walked, their slightly red faces, and the glazed look in their eyes. A beating was inevitable.

"Chiko-chan, we've come to play," Mommy slurred lowly with a smirk on her face. Uh-oh.

Mommy appeared at my side, grabbed a fistful of my long silver hair, and yanked as hard as she could. My head slammed against the wooden headboard, knocking me senseless for a couple moments. In that few seconds that I was dazed, Daddy began to repeatedly punch my stomach and sides. I cried out with each punch and screamed for them to stop.

"I thought I told you not to cry, you little bitch!" Daddy screamed. He held a pillow over my face to silence my cries. I became silent once my oxygen ran out, and right at that moment, the pillow was removed. I shot up and gasped for air. My face turned from purple to only slightly red in the few seconds I got to breathe.

"Dammit, Daisuke, you almost killed her. Hurt, don't murder, remember?" Mommy screamed at Daddy.

"I know that, you idiot, but we can't have the neighbors hearing! Now shut up while I get back to my work here!" Daddy screamed back at her.

Daddy turned to me again and pulled a pocketknife out of his ratty old jeans, then he "got to work" as he would put it.

The next morning, I woke up in an absolutely astounding amount of pain. I had a large amount of cuts and bruises scattered across my small body. None of the cuts were too deep nor the bruises too large, but the sheer amount caused plenty of pain. I took a moment to gather my energy before lifting my arms to examine them. Dried blood made stripes around my forearms. The blotchy blue bruises were scattered all over me; some were shaped like Daddy's hands, and others were shapeless.

Carefully standing up to avoid reopening any cuts, I silently meandered into the bathroom to clean myself up a bit. A bath or shower would be out of the question: too painful. I grabbed a washcloth out of the cabinet and damped it a bit, then began to gently wipe the blood off my arms and legs. I tried incredibly hard not to scream in pain. Waking my parents meant more beating, which was the last thing I needed right then.

I heard somebody slowly stomping up the stairs. I froze in fear before bolting to my room and diving under the covers. Being asleep could possibly mean evading more abuse. Although, running and jumping into bed probably wasn't the smartest decision, considering a few cuts had reopened.

"Awwww, would you look at that. She's actually able to sleep," a voice mumbled. "You woulda thought she'd be awake all night from the pain."

"Let's wake her up," said another voice sadistically. "I want more fun."

Hands roughly shook me until I was forced to quit my act.

"Hello, entertainment," Mommy chuckled.

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Things like that happened nearly every day. Hitting, punching, cutting, slapping, burning, the occasional shallow stabbing, etc. They tortured me, and there wasn't a thing I could do about it but wait till it was over. Crying or screaming only made it worse.

They never took me to a hospital. If the cut was too deep, they'd painfully sew it shut themselves. If the puncture wounds were too deep, they'd put off the beatings for a couple days to let me heal before hurting me some more.

Life was terrible. I was forced to grow up so much faster than normal kids my age. Average 7 year olds played with dolls and action figures and such. I, however, read books alone in the back of the classroom. My teachers somehow never suspected a thing.

Although I was very young, I was well aware of suicide. It was the easy way out of the torturous life I lived. But I, for some reason, desperately wanted to stay alive. I felt as if there was hope of escape.

I lived my life waiting to find that one shred of hope so I could get away from my damned parents.